Diaspora
by euphorbic
Summary: A war story of Folken's meteoric rise through Black Dragon ranks, while detailing his overreaction to Van's prophesied kingship. Spoiler intensive movie fic. Epilogue to the angstfest added.
1. Initial Patricide I

[Disclaimer: Escaflowne, and all the trademarks thereof, are not in anyway to be construed as belonging to me.  This is good, for I'd compromise the plot in order to get certain male characters to spill more blood and show more skin.  This is bad, because I'd write a better ending for the movie.]

[Note: This is set pre-movie, but still movie, and draws heavily from the radio dramas and a couple paragraphs from the Newtype art book as translated badly by me, but excellently by a friend of NickelS.  (Read Nickels work for insightful, flowing, and intriguing fiction!)]

Initial Patricide, Part One

            Adel surveyed the battlefield with terse irritation.  The ebon tide of the Black Dragon was being turned back onto itself in the fifth day of relentless battle.  Despite all his careful planning, if the black wave broke on the back of the snow-capped mountains, the whole war would shift disastrously in the favor of the enemy.

The fate of the entire invasion rested in Chadon's strategic mountain border because he had invested a good deal of the tribe's forces in creating a two front war.  He knew the border had only been assaulted once in the country's very long history.  In fact, it was a common saying in Gaia that only children were stubborn enough to throw themselves at Chadon's back.  Of course, Adel prided himself on accomplishing the unlikely and crushing the impossible.  It was just the kind of arrogant bastard he was.

The Chadonians had wisely reinforced the treacherous mountain strongholds on their northern border, but devoted most of their forces to their easily invaded western border.  They had calculated crafty General Adel might use his superior command of airships to assault their mountains despite the thin air and extreme temperatures.  

They knew it would be impossible for Adel to maintain the airships in the mountains for extended cannon rounds due to the climate's unfavorable conditions.  Accordingly, they hadn't spent too much energy keeping up their mountain strongholds when the war seemed eminent, five months earlier.  They poured most of their efforts into the western defense instead, which was holding remarkably steady against the bulk of the Black Dragon's aggression.  

However, no one had expected Adel to use his airships to drop troops rather than maintain inconsistent cannon bombardment.  It was a move precipitated by a new leap in technology that had made the drops possible.  Before, the Black Dragon tribe had been forced to maneuver their ships to the ground to release the troops.  The new tactic had yielded fast results and high body counts as shock troops poured into the gaps between Chadonian frontier lines.

The first two days had been an outright slaughter, with no sign of reinforcements for either side.  On the third, though, the Chadonians managed to close ranks when they'd paid a heavy death toll to shoot down most of Adel's ships.  On the fourth, he was nearly maddened to learn one of his last two ships had dropped his best legion in the midst of strongly held territory.  The morning of the fifth, he'd received word from the Elder Council he would have to leave off his childish assault and reinforce the western front, which had become a proverbial meat grinder without his direct supervision.

He clenched his fists in frustration.  Adel was a gambling man, and part of what made him good at it was recognizing when to cut his losses.  As he gazed out to the mountains were his best legion went down, he couldn't help but sneer.  Sometimes, he mused, one could make a mistake even when stacking the deck and this time it felt like he was losing a limb.

"Attend," he growled to an immediate subordinate commander.  The man stepped coolly to the general.  "The pilot of the _Rook_; a pity he didn't survive his mistake."

The commander opened his mouth to correct his general, for the pilot of the failing _Rook_, though misplacing Adel's best troop, had indeed survived.  But when he saw the cold blood in the general's eyes, he understood.  "Yes, sir.  A pity."  He moved away to make the proper arrangements.

Dune knew nothing but the powerful blasts of his mind and the death his sword inscribed in the vital organs of his adversaries.  He was the point and impetus of the most fearsome and bloody drive any Black Dragon footman had seen.  Crimson eyes crazed with agonized despair, he propelled himself through snow, previously churned with Chadonian blood.  Before him, cleaved flesh parted and concussed bodies flew.  None of the Chadonians had seen a beast like the young Black Dragon shock soldier, but they had heard legends.

Existing in the overlying present tense of muscle and motion, Dune dispensed mortal and crippling wounds with ease terrible to behold.  He did not think of the injuries threatening to write his death in the snow, nor the debilitating mental fatigue beginning to unlace the perimeter of his mind.  Dune only forged ahead to trade banal thought for murderous activity.  He did not want rest, could not invite a break in the killing, and had no intention of stopping.  The dead meat falling all around him in unfurling entropy kept worse things at bay.

The young soldier was not unaware of what he was doing despite his almost trance-like state; rather, he rode on the crest of his own death.  He gave over hordes of souls to appease the vacuum his life created.  It wasn't enough; it was never enough.  Living guilt and inner suffering drove him to actualize a physical representation of his inner turmoil.  He felt gratitude to Adel for the opportunity to do so.

Dune also understood his ferocity and other powerful Dragon attributes were all that stood between the rest of his diminishing force and destruction.  If they could only overtake one Chadonian defensive position, they could have a chance at survival and a hole in the enemy line to boot.  

Their problems were many.  Not only were they mostly surrounded in unfamiliar territory, they couldn't find any defensible positions to work out of.  All they were left with was brute force of flesh and will and animal desperation: a potent combination that kept more than a handful on their feet when they likely should have already dropped dead.

The jutting rock just ahead of them was the focus of their undaunted charge.  It was located atop a steep climb that would require two hands to scale in the worst spots.  The rock marked the reinforced position that had been unleashing a steady stream of crossbow quarrels and troops since they'd crashed down the night previous.  When the last of the troops used to defend its perimeter were exhausted, new waves of deadly projectiles flew forth.

There was no way Dune could stop even half the deadly missiles.  It was increasingly difficult to pick out the ones headed specifically for him and his immediate comrades and redirect them harmlessly overhead.  A few punched jarringly through their heavy armor only to be frustrated by the chain beneath, but more than a few had no solid metal to contend with and punched through chain sleeves or leather trousers to invade yielding flesh.

In the numbing cold, steam poured forth from Black Dragon mouths and open wounds.  Sweat and blood alike beaded into sparkling jewels, freezing as it fell from their skin.  Their rushing steps were muffled by snow, but the clang of swords and bolts on steel rang in the air.  Still they advanced, Dune exerting all his power to get them to the base of the final climb.

As the only one who could directly ward off the worst of the speeding death, Dune knew he was slated to continue as the impetus of the rush.  Without second thoughts, for only the first ones kept him alive in battle, he surged up the steep climb, one hand gripping his sword in a white-knuckled grip, the other clawing frantically at icy handholds.  

When he vaulted up the first three yards, he could sense their enemies' astonishment and breathed in the spike of their fear.  Renewed cross bolt fire slowed him, pinning him down for a moment when one bolt blasted into his shoulder cop and rebounded across his temple.  He pressed his body into the snow and raised his heavier armored left arm over his head to ward off the quarrels as he shook his head clear.

The pause almost did him in; he felt a sudden wave of utter exhaustion building into a crushing weight at the moment's small pause.  Fearing exhaustion more than his enemies, Dune again dug in his hands and spiked boots to renew his single-minded assault.  Behind him the thinning ranks of his legion threw in with him in their own death drives.

It wasn't inevitable, wasn't even likely, but Dune continued his advance.  He spent half the time sliding backwards as he scrabbled up the rise, but he didn't stop, couldn't stop; not even when the raining death moved off of him and onto his fellows at the base of the rise where he could not spare his attention.  Instead, he found before him, waiting at the edge of the rock, a man with a pike.  It seemed he was to be treated to a more direct form of repulsion.

Clarity struck within Dune in the split second it took to recognize the threat the man presented.  The pike man was the last thing, the last barrier, keeping him from equal footing, rock at his back, and relative safety.  Indignation reared its ugly head straight up from the darker side of his self.  After everything else the Chadonians had thrown at him, the last challenge was a man with a wickedly shaped pike?  They thought so little of him that a pike man was supposed to impale him the moment his hands were full of the jutting rock's only purchase?

Dune cultivated the last of his mental reserves in an intense stiletto of unadulterated rage meant solely for the Chadonian soldier eyeing his explosive advance.  The result yielded everything he desired.  As he surged to the last handhold, his sword hand fowled as he was forced to grip the icy rock with both hands, the pike man came forward to easily pick him off.  The blast of Dragon power was great enough to propel the pike man bodily to the left, into several of the archers regularly being fed reloaded bows.  At the same time, he felt a pop of mild pain behind his eyes.  He'd bought himself and those directly behind him the seconds they needed to swarm up the last few meters.

If Dune had seen the two swordsmen directly behind the pike man he might not have been able to summon the necessary rage he needed to gain equal footing.  As it was, his oversight left him open for a final attack.  Swift Chadonian straight swords, made for stabbing, jumped directly for his heart and head.  Without reserves, Dune could only think to stumble back to evade the deadly strikes while awkwardly batting the closest attack down.

Fortunately for the soldiers behind the young Dragon, Dune's spiked heel scraped over the jutting rock's unyielding surface and not their gloved fingers.  It was unfortunate for Dune that there was no purchase for those spikes, for the second step back, which freed him from metal death opened him up to a descent far more efficient than his previous ascent.

As his arms pin wheeled slightly and his body pitched backwards, Dune accepted his part in the battle seemed to be over.  Perhaps the whole war was going to be over as well.  If he was truly fortunate, he could even be at the end of his life.  

Dune felt some small freedom when his feet left the ground and his back was slightly parallel to the steep mountainside.  Several thoughts and impressions came to him.  He instinctually thought to call his wings only to remember the move would do him no good wrapped in metal as he was.  He was astounded by the peacefulness of the fall while all around him bloody chaos reigned.  He thought of Van and dared to imagine his beloved little brother might shed a tear to know how his older brother had died.

Then his whole existence centered on the first collision as his left shoulder intercepted the side of the mountain, whipping his body around it.  Subsequent collisions were no less violent, but he did not consciously follow the progression of the destruction.  At some point, he found himself more or less on his back, gazing at a sky painted an unusual shade of crimson.  He felt a warm stream of blood pour down the side of his face from his nose.  He smelled crisp mountain air.  His body he felt not at all. 

Dune's eyes drifted closed.

"Sons of the Dragon do not cry."

Dune opened his eyes as wide as he could and tipped his head back, hoping the moisture would dry before leaping past the red rims of his eyes. He knew no one would see the guilty drops of moisture, but the admonishment rang in his mind anyway. His father's stern proclamation echoed within him. He did not understand why, but he felt as if he was actually saying, 'You aren't my son.'

The boy lifted himself up to the window in his spacious room and straddled the sill to stare at the glittering stars. He imagined his mother's spirit looked down at him from the cold points of light. Even from a distance so great, he felt she did still love him, but he could not feel it. He could not feel the warm embrace her loving gaze used to wrap around him.  It was as if the cold distance ate her love as it reached for him and all that was left at the end of the trip was cool regard.

His father's new wife, lovely in every way, was not his mother. She was kind, but she did not fill the gap his mother had left.  In Dune's young mind, there was no way she could ever be adequate. She came too soon, her belly swelled with his own replacement before he knew it, and she commanded more of his father's flagging attention.

Not that his father had much time for anyone but his advisors and subjects, but she still had more time with him than the boy. After all, did they not inhabit the same quarters at night? Dune saw him mostly in passing in the day when he was with his tutors. The absence did not make the child's heart grow more fond, rather, his chest ached at the lack of interest the man showed him. The coming child, _that_ was the new recipient of Dune's small share of interest.  

Dune looked deeper into the sky, at the spaces between the stars.  Perhaps, his mother was there, rather than in the pinpoints of uncaring light.  Looking at the negative space, he wondered if that was his true destiny.  A sigh rattled his thin chest; his mother was replaced so easily and, it seemed, the same was true of him.  Would he soon join her?  It seemed unfair that he should be replaced even before he was gone.  As if, despite his presence, he did not actually exist.

Lately, he didn't really think about the things he did. Whether he excelled in his lessons, vandalized his practice materials, or disrespected his teachers, it didn't matter. The most he received from his father was an admonishment cloaked in such toneless disapproval that the boy hardly believed the man really was his father at all. Of course, when he had voiced such concerns the man he wished to acknowledge him only stared at him grimly. "It is only true that you are my flesh and bone."

The pronouncement was somehow far more chilling than anything Dune's furtive imagination could concoct. He suspected the source of his father's dislike was rooted in the lack of prophecies his birth had failed to bring. 

The boy didn't understand why there were no prophecies to confirm him.  Convinced of the importance of such things, he had spared much of his free time to learn all he could of the omens surrounding an auspicious birth. Sometimes he made many very weak cases for vague auspices surrounding his short life, but it wasn't a behavior anyone supported or entertained. In short order, Dune was little more than a closet diviner, but he never rested his small head in regard to prophecies.

Of course, due to his intense interest, he did not fail to recognize the signs he lacked when his half brother was born.


	2. Initial Patricide II

[Disclaimer: _Escaflowne_ has not, will not, nor ever will be my property; I'm just trespassing harmlessly.]

[Author's note:  There is a huge problem in tense near the end of this chapter but I haven't figured out how to fix it.  I'm ashamed.]

[This part is dedicated to NickelS for more goodwill than I ever expected to find on the internet.  I think the scene dedicated to you will be subtle, but obvious.  Good luck on Mid Terms!]

_Inititial Patricide, Part Two_

Adel wasn't in the mood for urgent information, assuming it was yet another hopeless plea from another dwindling legion throwing their might against solid rock. However, the tone of the runner hadn't seemed as apprehensive as prior runners had.****

From where he stood in ankle deep snow, he tracked another legion he'd dispatched to cover a series of retreats. He was loath to admit it was his last troop and anything but fresh. Many of the maniples that made up the legion were comprised of the remnants of others the Chadonian's solid defenses had forced back.

At length, he looked over one armored shoulder. "Spit it out," he snarled at the runner standing at a respectful distance. 

The sudden outburst startled the runner for a moment. It wasn't any wonder; Adel had a well-known predilection for roughing up people who annoyed him. The runner advanced anyway; sure his news would be well received. "Sir, a hole has opened up in the Chadonian line!"

Adel whipped around in shocked interest, a demand on his lips. "Where?"

"Not far from the _Rook_'s fouled shock troop drop," the runner exclaimed. "They survived and overran a central position about a kilometer in. Eagle peak, which overlooks the pass of the same name."

One swift step took Adel to the runner, while his mailed fists were sufficient to catch the unfortunate man by his arms and drag him within mere millimeters. "Recall the last legion," he hissed, then brutally propelled the runner away.

A series of plans and outcomes flowed from the strategic position his covertly favored maniple had secured. He found it more than slightly miraculous, but recalled the youngest soldier in the maniple as the only thing he had really regretted losing. It was an easy assumption to assign the capture's credit to the young man he'd been given nearly a year prior.

The boy had been a gamble, an uncertain investment, and he'd had no intention of testing him with such a suicidal run such as the _Rook_'s captain had accidentally given him. The original plan had called for a longer period of time to acclimate the young soldier to life as a nameless soldier in a faceless maniple. He'd intended to strip him of any thoughts of uniqueness he might harbor whilst in the Black Dragon tribe. In other battles the boy had performed remarkably, being among the most skilled warriors he'd ever sent to war. With his Dragon power to tip the scales, the somber young man was virtually without equal.

It had been a good gamble, Adel mused, motioning for a subordinate to attend him, but the dangers were becoming clearer. Before long, the young Dragon would need to be tamed or broken. Lest he develop a will of his own.

The subordinate he'd summoned approached and bowed respectfully. "Sir?"

Adel noted the man's deference with some amusement; it was proof of his power and position as the Black Dragon tribe's supreme military commander. "Intensify cannon bombardment on either side of Eagle peak; it seems we've seized it."

The man nodded stoically, asking no questions. "Right away, sir."

"Follow with a push into that part of the frontier," Adel continued. "I want the pass the peak oversees. When we have it, I'll send you a legion to widen the gap and to begin cutting the Chadonians down from behind. This engagement is closer to over than the Elder Council thought."

The commander smirked slightly at Adel's words. "I take it, sir, that we are not going to follow the Council's orders?"

Adel chuckled, a sound akin to distant thunder, "I could care less what the Council of Elders says when it comes to war! Let the old men collect wrinkles while we soak in blood."

The warmth permeating Dune's body was too comforting to be disorienting, but it was misleading. His fatigue was slipping away, to be replaced by slow consciousness. It wasn't easy to comprehend where he was and, as comfortable as he found himself, he wasn't in any rush to try to. He was enveloped in warmth, not in immediate pain, and he wasn't willing to think beyond physical sensation.

When the garbled voices became apparent, it his deep-rooted paranoia finally forced his awareness. Having spent most his life without any sort of security, he could not dismiss the noise or his situation the moment people came into the equation.

His fears did not diminish when the voices faded away, rather they immediately forced him to begin evaluating his position. Not wishing to give away his consciousness, should he somehow be a prisoner, he kept his breathing even and his eyes shut. He trusted his other senses to gather what information was available. Often, he knew, one's eyes were the most fallible of senses.

Remembering the snow shrouded battlefield, his first conclusion on his comfortable warmth was that he had severed his spine in the fall, was succumbing to hypothermia or both. Paranoid as he was, it came as a small shock when he realized the warmth enveloping him was actually water. 

Rationally thinking, Dune knew if he was in warm water it was probably a good thing. Prisoners of war in cold climates did not receive the courtesy of warm water to soak in. Irrationally, though, he knew he could easily be overpowered and drowned in his weakened state.

Dark amber eyes flew open wide, pupils dilated, swallowing up all but a thin rim of color as he tried to take in as much of his surroundings in as little time as possible. With nothing directly above him but a metal ceiling, dotted with orderly rivets, Dune shot up into a defensive crouch with his hands curled into claws before him. The shallow water he shared with the metal basin churned a great deal, some sloshing out noisily. 

The dramatic pose was not conducive to Dune's continued comfort. Before he quite knew what was going on, he found his head swimming with a rush of blood, heart hammering, and a multitude of significant pains insinuating themselves into his immediate consciousness. All at once, the taxes on his body served to collapse his legs beneath him. His upper body fell back as his feet slid forward in the churning water. The resulting slide removed a greater portion of the water while the remainder of it rushed back to flow over him.

Blood rushed in his ears while blackness invaded his vision. Dune found himself helpless as his body fought his mind's attempts to harness it. Though his senses and body were momentarily out of his control, Dune did not miss the sound of low, sardonic laughter from what he had previously spied as the metal chamber's only entrance.

"Quite a performance," the amused voice droned. Dune didn't need to use his Dragon power to ascertain General Adel's identity; the man had presence to spare.

While Dune remained relatively still in the basin, the water sloshing back and forth over his injury-threaded body, Adel stepped closer and looked down. No amount of spotted vision could conceal the dark amusement written on the man's face as he observed the young Dragon.

"I'd heard sons of the White Dragon conducted themselves with more dignity," Adel smirked. With casual cruelty, he reached down and took a handful of Dune's pale hair and pulled him, struggling weakly, to a more upright position. He held the young man in that manner until the Dragon's tattooed hands came up and gripped the general's wrist. Adel was faintly pleased when he felt the young man's thumbs dig into the appropriate pressure point in an attempt to force the offending hand open. 

Adel let go, but it was clear to Dune it had been a matter of the general's choice, not any sort of concession. "I see you are coming to yourself, boy."

Amber eyes, less defiant than frustrated, glared up mutely. Adel knew he was playing with fire, for the young man's abilities were well known to him. There wasn't a moment he forgot a scion of the White Dragon could employ his ample skills to rip him to crimson shreds. He found the dangers of playing with that kind of fire both intoxicating and intriguing, especially as the young man had sworn his loyalty to him with such serious abandon. The boy's need to be useful was his collar and leash. Having such a potent weapon to command pleased Adel to no end.

"I am the son," Dune spat viciously, "of no White Dragon."

"I see," Adel remarked in further amusement. He indulged himself with a comment calculated to maximize the young man's confusion. "Then whose son are you?"

A shocked expression passed over Dune's angular face. Several answers played with his lips, but none of them matched the ones in his head. He had a dual instinct to claim the Black Dragon and his mother, but the former was painfully close to admitting something that was hurting him and the latter was entirely too true.

Eyes growing distant and conflicted with suppressed emotion, Dune whispered as evenly as possible, "I am the son of the space between the stars."

The boy's weakness was spelled out for Adel's viewing pleasure. The display amused him, but concerned him as well. Showing such weakness was not in the general's best interest. The boy was his tool and there were those who would seek to break or steal a tool of such great power. For the sake of Adel's security, the boy had to learn better, because he'd rather eliminate such a valuable weapon than lose it.

Taking advantage of the young man's continued distraction, Adel placed his hand back on Dune's wet head. Startled by what he took as a warm act, Dune did not immediately react; a painful thudding in his chest froze him. It was short lived; Adel had no other intention than to shove down on Dune's head, pushing him smoothly under the water and holding him there until the young man's hands surged out of the water.

The general removed his hand before Dune could establish another grip on him. Instead, the tattooed hands gripped either side of the basin and ripped Dune free of the sloshing water.

"You mustn't be the son of the White Dragon," Adel commented, derision evident in his gravelly voice, "no child of his would parade such weakness."

Dune tried his best to sublimate his choking on the water he'd breathed in, but it seemed to only make his hacking worse. As helpless as he was with the throes of his lungs' rejection, he still found he could, at least, glare menacingly at his superior.

"But I fear that a name such as the one you hold," Adel continued, making no attempt to cover his disgust, "combined with the tales of your battle prowess might lead people to believe that you are indeed a son of the White Dragon."

The comment had the calculated effect of annoying Dune further while forcing him to subside. He wanted to shake off the sensible comment, but couldn't. The name was another attachment to a man who had ultimately betrayed him. It was a small leap to switch his anger from Adel to one infinitely more deserving. 

Pride kept Dune from agreeing vocally.  He sat in the warm water with hands raised slightly in paranoia that Adel might again make a grab at his now pounding head. His eyes remained on the crafty general, but he said nothing.  Had anyone else treated Adel with such familiarity, he would have had their eyes out. It was a calculated concession on the general's part; Adel knew the price of Dune's loyalty was a little attention.

"Within a day," the general said, now switching to the authoritative voice most of the Black Dragon tribe knew him for, "we'll be arriving in the capital. Your wounds have been tended as was possible the past two weeks, though nothing could be done for your eyes. As it is, I find they'll make you look more fierce when you take your place in the honor detail for our arrival.

"I want you presentable for that march," Adel commanded, eyes narrowing to dangerous looking slits. "And I want _Folken_, soldier of the Black Dragon, to eradicate Dune, son of the White Dragon, before we dock."

Struggling magnificently, Dune kept shock off his face, his own eyes narrowing in order to cover what emotions might be read within them. "Yes, sir," he replied in typical battlefield fashion, his voice harsh to his ears within the ship's small infirmary. 

A nod was all he had in return before Adel gave him the benefit of his back. Dune watched aimlessly as the man left and listened attentively as the man's boots spoke less and less loudly of the general's presence. 

When he was confident the imposing man was truly gone, the young Dragon sighed and allowed his upper body to drift forward and down. His hands gripped the basin's edge and helped him ease his forehead to the smooth metal surface and his corded shoulders to the backs of his hands. Another shuddering sigh shook the young man's chest and left through lightly clenched teeth.

More confusion swirled through his mind than he'd felt since he'd come under the Black Dragon banner. There were too many things to think about, powerful parallels under the black banner and the white, and equally difficult things to be raked by. Of course, hadn't Adel always made it apparent that life was pain? It was a truth Dune didn't want to think about, but it was more than his father had ever told him.

At least Adel took an interest in him; found him of value. That was the one thing that made it more bearable when he'd commanded the death of Dune. A slightly mad laugh, hardly more than a few shaky exhalations of air, shook the Dragon's upper body. Here he was, under a different banner, and commanded the same things. It was only bearable this time because the death of Dune was only symbolic.

He wished very hard, eyes suddenly tight, laugh turning from madness to burning anguish, he could at least know the unconditional affection of his little brother while in the expanding empire of the Black Dragon. It was impossible, but it was the one thing that kept him alive before his choices had dwindled to only physical or spiritual death. Under the black banner, the only thing keeping him afloat was rage against betrayal and hope he might see Van again. It was a hope he never examined too closely, for fear it might, like the rest of his dreams, turn into a cruel twist of fate.

Knowing his continued survival depended on avoiding the draw of such depressive thoughts, he lifted his head and shook it slightly, as if to clear it. He needed to think of other things, of the future. That in mind, he jolted upright, recalling many of the more important things Adel had said.

He cursed himself for a fool as he realized that not only had they apparently won against Chadon in record time, but he also must have performed admirably in battle to be ranked with the honor detail. The information brought him to a further understanding; a name change was crucial to future promotions. A rebellious or cast off son of the White Dragon tribe could not be trusted to amount to anything but an eventual traitor. Certainly they would know he was exceptional by virtue of his Dragon attributes, but it wasn't unlikely they would willingly turn a blind eye if he were covered with the veneer of the Black Dragon tribe.

Turning to an easier problem, he thought two weeks of medical treatment seemed unusual. He looked himself over, connecting myriad pains with their physical representations. There were no splints, as one might have expected from the terrible fall he'd suffered; his kind were much tougher than that, but his flesh was as fallible as the next tribe's. In several locations he found swaths of colorful chain mail rashes, where the chain had bitten despite leather padding. He assumed the rashes were present where he'd hit the mountainside with the most force. There were crossbow punctures in his legs where the chain fell short and armor plates became too restrictive to be practical.

He didn't see two weeks of medical treatment even if his head hurt terribly and his thoughts seemed more jumbled. Bending down to the basin, he picked his reflection out of the metal surface's reflection despite the distortions. Immediately, he noticed the skin surrounding his eyes weas dark, as if he'd been struck repeatedly in the face. His eyes were devoid of white. His eyes resembled ruddy bronze discs floating in pools of blood.

The expenditure of power he didn't have came back to him. There had been a tiny explosion behind his eyes as he'd assaulted the pike man with contrived rage. He didn't recall ever being taught that such an injury could be incurred. The oversight was minimal in a short lifetime of isolation. He knew he would have to be more careful in the future. 

To prove the origin of the injury, he cast about the room for an object to experiment on. His bruised eyes fell on a convenient towel. Focusing carefully, he summoned his will and began to reach out for the linen. No sooner than he began to pull at it did he feel a brief spasm of pain behind his eyes. A gasp escaped him, but he exhibited no expression. He wondered if it was going to take longer than two weeks to recover from the worst of his injuries.

Dune was determined to make his half-brother's life miserable from the moment he witnessed the first auspice. At first, it was easy to dislike him for he discovered babies were terribly annoying creatures. The problem with his planned intentions was the sad fact that when infants weren't cloaked in protective bodily fluids (such as saliva, mucus, and feces), they were sounding off claxon wailing. Between those deterrents, there was the not distasteful fact that his father's second wife was constantly with the child. There were also the moments their father came to look in on the robust child. If Dune were present when his father and baby brother were together, he would often be the beneficiary of subzero disapproval. 

When the boy was a little over a year old, things became more difficult for Dune's small program of making Van cry. Dune, being the youngest child in the castle, was the first object of Van's attention. Overbalanced steps and wide brown eyes were an annoyance at first, then a curiosity. Miraculously, Dune finally found Van a welcome sight.

Van was the first person in years to seek him out with a smile and wide held arms. The child's innocent love and pure worship captivated the sullen eleven-year-old. Years of pent up pain and confusion hibernated in the presence of his tiny brother. How could he not try to return such boundless, unconditional, love? 

Van's mother watched the budding relationship with bittersweet eyes. Their father continued on in disapproval, but said nothing to split the two up. For his part, Dune began to break out of his pain-induced solitude. He began to apply himself to his studies.

Smiles had not graced Dune's face since his mother had passed away, but Van brought a slanting smirk to his face and energy to his life. With quick laughter, bright smiles, ingenious mischievousness, and unconditional devotion Van eased the stress of being unwanted. Dune matched the love as best he could and devoted himself to his brother whole-heartedly. He took the boy to watch sunsets astride his shoulders, he raced down corridors on all fours with Van clinging to his hair and shoulders, he even braved the pain of unfurling his wide wings to take the boy across the valley.

What love his tormented heart could offer was Van's alone, just as what happiness he had was only Van's to give. 

Unfortunately, Dune was a child of unpleasant omens and circumstances. Given to secretive ways and silent habits even at sixteen, it didn't take him long to overhear the rumors that a disturbing prophecy had been given. It was whispered that the day would come when Dune would seek to slay his little brother and destroy the kingdom.

The information sent Dune reeling. Shocked and utterly unnerved, he stumbled uncertainly back to his spacious room and the precarious safety of its windows.

"I am flawed," he murmured, carelessly slamming his door behind him. The thought propelled him to the escape of a vaulted window. Under his hands, the sun warmed stone cooled, his short fingernails scraped against it ineffectually. He only noticed the tense tightening of his fingers when the tips began to ache.

His hands were strong from outdoor living, hard work, rough games, and endless bouts of training with a sword. They were callused and tan, roughened from the same things that made them strong, nimble with youth and practice. His hands were approved of by people he trained with, admired by a few girls, and looked on in awe by a little boy who only knew they were attached to an older brother.

They crashed ineffectually on the stone windowsill. 

He lowered his head almost immediately to look at the wiry hands that were now throbbing weakly along the outermost knuckles. The pinky fingers and knuckles radiated dull pain. This, too, was a flaw.

"Only a fool tries flesh against stone," he whispered to himself. "Only a fool."

It was as if nothing good could ever come since Van's auspices had been read. Since then his training had scaled back and his teachers had lost their energy with him. The whole kingdom looked past him, dooming Dune to shadows and starlight.

Despair settled into his heart. He looked down from his window to the distant ground and felt the pull of gravity. The ground called him; it yearned for the impact of his body and the kiss of his blood, possibly to be hastened by white wings.

Dune knew the very love and devotion he felt for his little brother was killing him. The part that used to yearn for a father's approval had already withered, to be replaced by an ugly feeling wrapped in a tight chrysalis of pain. There could never be anything he could do to right the wrong of his flawed existence.

For the following weeks, Dune lived an empty life of sleep, lack of appetite, frustrated attempts at training, and introspection, punctuated with hormonal drives for girls and violence that left him feeling more terrible than before. He was developing a reputation for heartlessness and unpredictable outbursts of growing intensity. More and more, he found himself at the edge of his window, his heart imploring him to follow his gaze to the ground. He dreaded seeing his father above all since he'd heard the prophecy.

One frigid night, he stood at the window, like a criminal might stand at the door of a cell, watching the distant stars through the clouds of his breath. He was, as ever, alone within the fleshly prison of his body; alone within his own mind. Spilled across the floor behind was a semicircle of wine and glass, which twinkled in a miserable parody of the points above.

"What is the sin," he mused, "that lies at the core of who I am? What is the sin that blackens all prospects for happiness? What is the root of this pathetic suffering?"

_Affection._ He answered the question, but despite the conclusion he was determined to retain his feelings for Van. Affection might be the root of pain, but Van's affection for him was Dune's only source of happiness. Only… there was no longer joy to be found when he heard the boy's voice. It was just pain. He looked down at the ground again. The fall, even with his wings speeding him down to it, couldn't be certain to do the trick. Sighing heavily, his eyes fell on his sword. He'd do it sober. He'd hold his young brother one last time and then he'd do it. He'd do it, holding his brother's laughing voice in mind as a treasured capsule of suffering.

In his mind, the issue was settled. He would defy the prophets, protect his brother, and gain his freedom at the end a burst of speed and sword blade. Shuddering with the certainty of his decision, Dune slid down the stone wall under his window and fell into the welcoming refuge of sleep.

His only regret was that he could not take his father down with him.


	3. Second Patricide I

[Disclaimer: _Escaflowne_ is copyrighted by Sunrise Bandai and entities other than myself.  Except Chadon, which was born to die.  For the curious; Orm is from the radio dramas (transcripts at Tsubasa no Kami site, but buying CDs encouraged) and Adel is mentioned in the Newtype art book on Folken's character design page.]

[Author note: These parts keep getting longer, don't they?  Inconsistency is a bit annoying, but the writing is better than last chapter.]

Second Patricide, Part One 

The siege cannons sounded sporadically through the roaring downpour, reminding Folken briefly of the faltering steps of a dying giant.  It was a mildly appropriate description he mused dismissively.  He raised both ungloved hands to his forehead to supplement his standard issue helm in an attempt to ascertain how much of the once graceful Asturian castle was actually still burning despite the continuing rain.  

Adel had been in charge of the siege for a month prior, but had delegated the responsibility to Folken, claiming his young protégé needed to cut teeth on siege warfare.  Folken had gladly been recalled from commanding his own legion in Asturia's eastern verdant forests; the battle there had become little more than guerilla warfare.  Folken was unaccountably skilled at reorganizing his divisions to better combat the Asturian guerillas, but it was tedious work with little of the hectic hand-to-hand combat he craved.

Siege combat was far more challenging and distasteful than he'd expected.  While he'd studied sieges extensively under both white and black banners, he hadn't been prepared for the greatly psychological aspects of it.  About half of the fight was keeping his soldiers from becoming bored during the extended periods they weren't assailing the castle walls.  The realization had been distressing.  To that end, he'd contrived endless new attacks designed more to take up his soldier's time than be effective torments to the Asturian garrison.

One such attack had been to use one of his few airships to release tons of tar on the white upper reaches of the castle.  He had to admit he'd come on the idea when the Asturians had poured boiling oil down a tunnel a troop of his sappers had built under the castle's east wall.  The smell of oil and burning flesh still assaulted him when he was drowsy, but the screams were far too familiar and muffled to recall.

It was becoming increasingly clear to Folken that the rain was not going to let up.  Sparing a wry glance up at the heavy gray clouds, he wondered how soon it would be before his troops started to develop 'trench foot'.  Constantly wet feet had a way of developing painful maladies.  His next glance took his amber eyes toward his own feet with a small amount of amusement.  Hopefully his ancestry meant he could avoid a tissue problem; pissing on his feet didn't really appeal to him, even if Adel had laughingly insisted it was better than amputation at the ankle.

In a fairly good mood despite the natural and man-made miseries of his current environment, Folken smirked his slanting smile while observing that, yes, the tar he'd ordered dropped was actually still burning.  Better yet, the fire was eating its way up the battlements to the main battery of cannons that were still being cleaned.  At this rate, he mused, he could actually get a requisition filled for another airship.  

The Asturian gunners were exceptional marksmen.  They had forced Adel to pull all but a few small airships out of combat and, being that Folken was new to sieges, Adel had taken most of the ships with him when he'd left to discuss further war plans with the Council of Elders.

Using his Dragon attributes, Folken sent his focus out to the battlements for a better idea of how bad off the battery of guns was fairing.  With any luck he could order sappers to start digging under the battlements if the castle's garrison decided they couldn't be saved.  He'd have preferred ladders, but the burning tar effectively botched that notion.

Folken watched closely as a crew of Asturian soldiers tried to smother the burning sludge coating one of their remaining cannons. His eyes narrowed slightly and he called on his power to take his vision even closer: it seemed to him that one of the soldiers putting out the fire was wearing a dress. A closer look revealed a young girl aiding the crew. He tilted his head to one side in interest, allowing a trickle of rain to pour across his face from the periphery of his helmet. 

He'd seen her and an older sister at a political reception for Black Dragon officers in Freid after Chadon's unconditional surrender. It was, in fact, one of the Asturian princesses, though not the one he'd been obligated to avoid at Freid.  He'd also seen her back when she and Van were barely on two feet.  The two had never been formally introduced thanks to his ability, and the encouragement of others, to be scarce at times even faintly scented of politics.  She couldn't be more than ten years old.

As he recalled his past anger surged through his veins and fueled his sudden command.  "Javelin!"

Millerna was her name.  With the help of his Dragon powers, he could lend a projectile the necessary force to pierce her small heart even from such a great distance. The loss could be a morale-killer or cause such a rage that the Asturian king would make some tragic mistake.

Though shocked by the sudden and very uncharacteristic demand, Folken's aide was quick in filling his order.  Through rain and mud, the soldier scrambled back for javelins, returning momentarily with a spear in each hand.  

Even if his hands were wet, he still had no difficulty snapping a javelin from one of his aide's hands.  He tossed it up one handed and snatched it at the far end, the appropriate grip for a throw.  One arm swung backward in an arc of potential promise while the other stretched forward, almost as if the wide splayed hand would block his victim out by mere force of will.

His focus narrowed, zeroing in with minute detail.  He wanted to see her expression, wanted to feel her fear, and to know who it was that would pierce her heart.  His tightly splayed left hand retreated swiftly to tear away his helmet and toss it to the mud at his feet while he tightened his focus into an almost physical presence.  _Look at me._

The Asturian princess suddenly paused and slowly looked over her shoulder, eyes showing white all the way around her lovely cornflower irises.  Through the distance and rain, they connected.  Her fear was obvious and terrible.  Folken's will was stronger and far more violent and fueled the monstrous effort that propelled his arm forward, releasing the javelin with deadly force and speed.  She could not look away from his burning orange eyes.  Not until the javelin found its mark.

A wash of crimson spattered Millerna as the deadly projectile not only burrowed into the armor and flesh of the gunner next to her, but also proceeded to blast through his back and continue on into the marble wall directly behind them.  An indistinct circle of red ran pink down the white marble with the help of the unceasing rain.  The rain continued on, washing the blood from the girl's round features, but only spreading the stain on her clothes as it dripped from the damp tendrils of her auburn hair, the point of her chin, and the tip of her nose.

While she was no longer staring at the distant image of a terrifying man, Millerna was still gripped by the sudden, bloody death of the Asturian soldier she'd been helping.  It wasn't until another gunner seized her and made for cover that she found she could move again, but the shock still gripped her young mind.  

Folken did not look away until he was satisfied the Asturian princess' fear was complete.  _This, then, is war.  No games._  

His aide proffered the remaining javelin, but Folken batted it away negligently.  "I got my point across," he murmured in an unnecessary explanation.  It was better he preferred to lead in a less brutal fashion than Adel; he couldn't get away with the manhandling Adel employed.  Folken had shot up the ranks since the Chadonian surrender the previous year but he was still far the inferior rank to the Black Dragon tribe's military commander.  

A trickle of cold water ran down Folken's neck.  He suppressed his natural inclination to shudder and instead crouched to retrieve his helmet.  The armor came from the mud with some difficulty.  The force of his toss had imbedded the armor a few inches in the soft earth and it had already captured a good deal of rainwater.  He handed the helmet to his aide, amusement returning slowly to him.  One of the perks of being in charge was being able to occasionally delegate some of his upkeep to somebody else.  It wasn't something he usually did, but he wasn't in the mood to be reminded of his show of anger by having to clean the annoying helm.

"Retrieve my immediate commanders," Folken ordered, his voice firm, yet devoid of tone.  "I'll meet with them in my tent.  Tell them we're going to talk to the Asturians about their surrender."

It didn't take long for Folken to find his way back to his tent, but it did take him a few moments to locate dry linen to rub his hair down with; he eventually made do with an undershirt.  The downpour had finally discovered a weakness in his tent's waterproofing and a small stream was running down one side of the tent wall across the middle of the floor and out the front flap.  Most of his materials were kept in airtight containers, but he'd failed to lock down the small one holding towels and rags.  

It occurred to him that the transport drops would make much better lodgings in a siege.  If he'd had one of the huge battleships to work with he would have sent word for a drop.  Of course, if he'd had one of the battleships he'd be tempted to simply crush the castle outright even though Adel wanted the structure intact for future use.

His underlings found him at his collapsible table, a series of maps under his hands, and the undershirt draped around his neck.  They respected him, but many had issues with his youth.  From what they understood, Folken was a prodigy Adel had discovered only two years previous, when the young man had been only sixteen.  Many of the unit commanders were young, but few of them had been in the military for less than four years.  It was a source of tension Folken didn't improve by refusing to modifying his behavior to suit.  

Satisfied they were assembled, Folken stood up and looked them over.  He might have been the youngest of them, but he had height on all of them.  All were in varying degrees of muddiness and most looked curious beneath impassive facades.  The rest just looked irritated.

"They won't surrender, sir," one man commented dryly, when Folken's non-verbal inspection began to drag.

Folken ignored the comment, supplying them with a few of his own.  "They look ragged already.  Not more than a few minutes ago I saw their youngest princess out on the southern battlements trying to help smother the flames headed for that section's cannons, thank to the tar."  He shrugged lightly, "I'm amazed they're becoming so disoriented to let a child of importance out on the walls.  I'm more amazed she's even there.

"We're going to cease action for a moment to offer them a chance to expel whatever women and children they have kept within their walls.  Then…"

Folken was given pause by the strange looks he was suddenly receiving from the unit commanders.  He knew there was something in what he'd said that had alerted them, but he wasn't sure what it was.  His heart beat a little irregularly, but he rose to the challenge with fresh intensity.

"What?"  He snarled at the men crowding his tent, "Is there already something you don't understand?"

The man commander who had spoken before kept to expectations by speaking up again.  "General Adel never let them expel their women and children.  If we let them leave now it would boost their morale."

Another man added gruffly, "They'll expect us to execute any of our prisoners of war anyway."

Blood was somehow, despite no sudden movements on Folken's part, beginning to rush through his head.  His vision darkened somewhat, but he responded coolly, "I dislike it when people jump to conclusions."

It was his voice, but it sounded far away to Folken.  The castle was full of people, not just a garrison and king, but undoubtedly thousands of Asturian citizens.  

His voice continued in a quiet tone that chilled his commanders' blood.  "If I call you here to listen to a plan, I should be given silence and attentive faces as I explain it to you.  If you owe our high general your loyalty, then you owe it to me if he commands it."

It hadn't been long ago that he'd been charging through Asturia, cutting off all the capital's supply lines and directing temporary dams be built that would keep the capital from being watered.  They'd even sent the seized food supplies still bearing Asturian crests to the Black Dragon forces at the siege just to further humiliate the Asturian garrison.  He'd found the whole prospect a satisfying project.

"If you don't like that General Adel appointed me to head this operation in his absence, I suggest you remove yourself from my presence.  If he does not like your reasons for deserting, then I will have you slaughtered outright as traitorous vermin."

            The Asturians were probably out of vermin to eat.  The rain was blessing them with much needed water; who knew what kind of soup one could contrive with rainwater?  They hadn't seen much in the way of light in the castle at night, had the people exhausted their tapers with fire or appetite?  

            "While I send a handful of you to negotiate, sappers will tunnel under the southern battlements.  With the rain it will be a treacherous task, but we'll breach the castle there.  A maniple will follow me in while the sappers continue work on collapsing the wall."

            Adel had left him in charge of an atrocity.  When word came out, Folken's name would be attached to one of the cruelest sieges in Gaea.  There would be fear, hatred, and worse.  Of course, what people thought of him mattered very little, what mattered was the buried dream of proving a prophecy a lie and being able to one day reunite with a little brother.

            When he heard the choking, Folken realized his building rage was seeping out by way of his Dragon power.  Before him, the commander who spoke too soon too often, was clutching at his throat which, to all present, seemed to be constricted by an unseen force.  A few leaned back, having heard of Folken's abilities, others searched for the source of the attack.

            Folken looked decidedly inhuman as he leaned forward into the choking man's face.  His bare hand was steady as he lifted it to the man's straining neck to wrap slowly, almost delicately, around the armored throat.  Amber eyes, filled with newly sparked hatred, bored into the bulging ones across from him.  

            "This, then, is war.  No games."

            It was one of the darkest nights since Folken had transferred to the siege.  With the rain turning torrential, the moon below the horizon, and clouds obscuring the stars, it was darker than anyone cared for.  What light that could be had came from only a few fires in the Black Dragon camp.  The Asturians had kept all lights out, hoping to foil the periodically waterlogged Black Dragon cannons.  It was a likely night for Asturians to attempt escape.

            Folken could care less.  He'd opted to enter the sapper's narrow tunnel early despite the danger of collapse.  The thought of suffocating under a ton of mud didn't bother him as much as it should have.  Mud was up to his elbows and thighs as he crawled face to backside with the sapper in front of him.  The worst of the mud was ahead, at the bottom of the tunnel's arc.  It was going to get worse, he'd been cautioned, as the rain continued to fall.  Folken did not doubt that it would.  While the mud was sucking at his hands and legs, the water was beginning to hit his chin.

            He avoided letting his mouth enter the water for as long as possible, going so far as to turn it to his extreme left while stretching his neck up as far as he could.  Eventually it was unavoidable and he found himself half swimming, half crawling completely underwater for a short distance before his head surfaced again.  The feeling of water draining out his helm might have been disturbing, but he was feeling very little other than cold fury.

            After a few more moments of slogging uphill through the tunnel, he could hear the rain's steady droning again.  When the sapper he'd followed disappeared from Folken's superior sight, he felt the rain on his helm.  He raised his face to the downpour as he dragged his long body from the mouth of the tunnel and stepped aside.  It was slow going, getting troops through the tunnel, but conditions improved marginally as the sappers dug more tunnels off of the first and redistributed the water.

            Outside the tunnel the soldiers did what they could to clean off their armor, but found the rain the most effective solvent.  They checked their swords, assembled a few collapsible javelins, and shook out their helmets.  What sound they made was muffled by rain and what faltering steps they took were sucked at by mud.

            It took far longer to assemble his seventy men than Folken had expected, but that didn't concern him as much as the possibility they hadn't properly committed the castle's layout to memory.  They were going to make the best of a charge for the west gate while the men outside would renew their assault on the main gate to the northeast, and the sappers continued work on the south wall.  

            The siege had lasted far too long, but it was Folken's anger that made further waiting completely intolerable.  He was burning with the pain of further, deeper, betrayal and the only balm he knew was violent action.  It was not unlike the moment that spelled out his inner death.  Only this time he was equipped to inflict his inner turmoil on the world outside his mind.

            He set out at a brisk pace, his arms and legs moving with deliberate grace.  In the rain and darkness there were none to admire his fluid form, the sheer beauty of armor-clad destruction.  He distantly enjoyed the muted feeling of taut muscles as they stretched and contracted under his skin like the inner workings of a barely contained machine.  

There was little light to see by, but Folken was not hindered by dimness; his ancestry provided him with excellent night vision.  The castle's citizens were clear to him before any of his soldiers.  They stalked the lanes and allies, unseen thanks to the haze the Asturians were left in after months of feeble rationing.  They swept along, cloaked in darkness and rain.  Where the Black Dragon tribe found open eyes or voices raised in fear, they left stillness and hush.  

Where his soldiers' sight ended, Folken's sword licked out to savor the thin blood of the hidden, but not often, for his anger could only begin to be slaked in the heat of fierce combat.  He moved his troop quickly knowing they would eventually be discovered.  While he only cared for battle, he still held on to the notion of defeating his enemies.

The first watch they ran into was so shocked at their advance they momentarily mistook them for an early replacement.  Their sheer numbers quickly gave lie to the assessment.  The watch soon fell under the Black Dragon heel, but not before their screams resounded off marble and into the rain.  The watch's lamps were doused, but their cloak of darkness only lasted for a short time.  In moments the pop and glare of flares lit the night in eerie phosphorescence, casting the scene in morbid shades of green and gray.

The light made it possible for the Black Dragon soldiers to break into a run for the far off gate.  The flare was also the cue for the attack to commence at the northeast gate where false negotiations had distracted the weary Asturians.

Folken's thirst for bloody combat was soon engaged when a regiment of the garrison crashed into them.  Blazing in cold fury, he ripped through them with hateful ease, leaving a swath of severed limbs and death in his wake.  He found himself anything but satisfied with the poor showing they gave him.  The Asturians were weak; it seemed the insufferable bastards had actually opted to feed their citizens.  The understanding only drove Folken's madness deeper.  The chance to be with Van was dying under his very hands.

He was on the wrong side.  He was killing virtuous men.  His name was on starvation, murder, and atrocity.  It wouldn't have been any different if his hands were soaked to the elbows in the blood of the White Dragon tribe.  Frustration took a bite out of his heart and rendered his inhibitions useless.  Nothing stood before him, not even his own men if they were so blind as to venture into his peripheral vision.  

The most horrible scream any of the soldiers on either side had ever heard pierced the night.  It was a keening of such despair, it sucked away the will to fight or flee.  The noise was an eruption of purely mad frustration and did not end before death cries joined it in an unbearable cacophony.

Adel was interested in Folken's blank stare when he dismissed the rest of his battered commanders.  The boy had left the reporting to others, which opened up the common possibility of glory thieving, a practice he'd just witnessed in full flower.  They had been careful not to take too much of Folken's credit, but had encroached on several of the boy's accomplishments.  Not long ago the boy would have bristled in indignation at the merest affront.  It was well known that Folken would do everything in the bounds of slavish loyalty to curry Adel's favor.  Behind his back, the young man was even referred to as 'Adel's Dog.'

His lack of response was highly unusual, but not so much as his lack of report.  Adel did not mind the unexpected, it was the sudden absence of predictability that intrigued him.  With studied nonchalance, he snapped his fingers in front of the boy's eyes.  He noted a delay as the orbs fixed obediently on him.  For once, there was nothing to read there, the strange golden color of his eyes reflected Adel's inquiry back at him.

"What's wrong with you, boy?" Adel asked in calculated concern that turned more sincere when the young Dragon made no move to respond immediately.  

The young man's lips finally broke the seal of silence he merely murmured, "It isn't me that is wrong; I did everything right."

The comment wasn't what he was looking for, for all its understated confidence.  Adel pressed on, watching the boy's face hawkishly for any sign of emotion.  "One of the princesses escaped along with a small retinue of bodyguards and you expect me to believe you did everything right?"

Folken's slow blink conveyed disinterest and dumbfounded the sly general.  Something had happened to the boy, something or someone had affected the boy's outlook, that or the boy had used too much of his power, as he'd explained to him a year prior.  Or, perhaps, an emotional weakness had been exploited and the young dragon had finally built up solid defenses.

"And you executed all your prisoners," the general remarked.  "Not what I expected of you at all."

"It was more merciful," Folken replied in a firm, yet quiet, voice absent of emotion, "than cutting out their tongues and severing their hands."

Adel leaned back in no small amount of shock.  This was no White Dragon child before him; this was more of a man, and a ruthless one at that.  It seemed Folken had broken free from the shell of his naïveté sooner than expected.  Adel smiled broadly; the change was sudden and complete and entirely to his benefit.  When Orm have him the boy, he had rightly predicted the Dragon child could mature into a useful citizen of the Black Dragon empire.

"Next time we'll need prisoners," the general chuckled, seeing Folken in a new light.  He was finally ready to see the Dragon as more of an equal, though no less a tool, to bring in more territory for the empire.

Folken nodded slightly, without emotion, "I can do that."

"Good."  Adel continued to be impressed with the change wrought in his most deadly weapon.  It caused a more benevolent feeling to rise in him.  "Despite leaving my best sappers under tons of mud, walls, and cannons, you performed better than expected.  I see another promotion in your immediate future."

Like a predator scenting his prey on the wind, Folken lifted his head up, looking at Adel with the first sign of interest the entire morning.  "I only desire one reward, sir."

"Name it," the general smirked, wondering if he would discover evidence of a new weakness, "and I'll consider it."

The flat surface of the golden eyes took on shape again and outshone the dim light the room's lamps offered.  His proposed offer was stated in an equally quiet tone, laced with steel.  "We will suffer no prisoners to live when we take the White Dragon's lands."

Interesting times were always at hand when the sorcerer known as Orm came through any land.  Adel never knew if he would be more amused or perplexed when he ran into to the sorcerer, but he could usually count on a game of wits.  The complexities surrounding the sorcerer were easier to rebound from than the stodgy old men on the Council.  His fast mental reflexes reminded the Council that his teeth were no less sharp, but their old ways could slow him down.

When Orm requested to see him, Adel irritated his lesser generals by sending them away forthwith and immediately having the old man brought to him.  He remained standing over his maps and supply charts, never worrying that his war plans would be discovered.  Orm had always had better things to do with his time than play spy.

Adel was just beginning to write down a note concerning the water rationing of a desert area when Orm was finally seen in.  He would have written the note down anyway, but he hadn't expected the old man to be accompanied.

Irritation washed over his face at the ragged-looking teenager at the sorcerer's weathered side.  "Apprentice?"

Orm smiled brashly, "Yes, but not mine.  And good day to you, too, General Adel."

Adel snorted and tossed his pen down, keeping his gaze on the sorcerer but his attention on the young boy.  The lanky youth had an odd look to him the general didn't trust.  "It isn't a good day, old man, when you come to see me.  You're here to irritate me."

The older man sighed and shook his head in a fair approximation of sadness.  "Since when have I ever been talented enough to raise your ire?  I'm really not that important."

A firm nod, but an otherwise expressionless face was all he gave Orm as he deadpanned, "True.  Get out."

"Now don't be too hasty!"  Orm exclaimed in rough delight.  "I've come to do you a favor and all you can do is be rude?"

The general smirked at the old man.  If there was anything the man loved it was a bit of hard-to-like.  "I don't recall asking you for any favors, Orm.  I don't have any interest in owing you one and I have less interest in being talked into any."

Orm opted for a more serious expression.  The sorcerer slipped his hands together, steepling his index fingers in thought before leaning forward to speak.  "Actually, General, it is a favor that pays for itself."

Adel raised an eyebrow in slight curiosity, but opted not to reply.  

Orm gestured vaguely at the boy beside him.  "Here is your new apprentice; a lad of extraordinarily tragic past, but with," the man's voice fell to a hush, "the god's armor in his future.  If he were to be properly trained, you might find him useful and in return, he might find a place to belong."

A snort of disgust ripped the air, "God's armor?  Hardly.  Another orphan to fill our ranks but not," and Adel glanced at the boy dismissively, "worth an apprenticeship.  Look at him, old man, he's cowering."

The child was indeed shaking, but as Adel looked more closely he saw strong hands contorted into angry claws.  The head was bowed but his tousled hair did not effectively hide the defiance in the shimmering gold eyes.  He was shocked to feel the air become almost electrified.

"Dune," Orm whispered in an attempt to placate the boy, "torching General Adel is not going to help you find a roof over your head so much as a marker for your grave."

To Adel's amazement, the heady power evaporated from the air.  He was about to demand if the boy really had sorcerous powers when memory served him.  Dune was the name of the White Dragon king's first son.  It wasn't a particularly unusual name, but coupled with the power and golden eyes, it became clear Orm was preparing to hand over a potential problem of unparalleled danger.  The Black Dragon tribe, though spoiling for a fight with the distant White Dragon tribe, was not yet equipped to handle them in a serious conflict.

"Are you mad?"  The general snarled in outrage, "His father will raise the call to war if I'm seen with a hostage like this.  Take him and go before I have the good sense to kill you both and feed your bodies to wild dogs."

"There's no danger of that, I'm afraid," Orm sighed sadly, looking at the boy, who was digging rough fingernails into his callused palms in fine display of self-destruction.

The general remained unconvinced and highly agitated.  "How so?"

The White Dragon's offspring finally raised his head, dry lips parting to give voice to a brief and harsh explanation.  "He ordered me to take my own life."

As hard as he tried to project it on the boy, Adel could sense no cowardice in him.  Possibilities began to form in his mind, infecting him with ideas of taking the Dragon off Orm's hands after all.  "So tell me, boy, why didn't you do it?"

Dune ran callused fingers over his sword's curving hilt.  "I was going to do it…" With a familiar flick of his thumb, the hilt jumped, baring a few inches of polished steel.  "But it is one thing to volunteer and… another to be commanded."

"If you swear loyalty to the Black Dragon," Adel was quick to state, "I could very well order you to your death."

The boy nodded his acceptance, "I wouldn't take it personally."

A look at Orm confirmed the boy's reply.  "So, as long as you don't take anything I tell you to do personally, I can trust you?"

"General Adel," Orm cut in before the boy could form a reply, "you aren't the type to treat the boy personally."

Adel nodded, wearing a grim smile; it was true, he wasn't the type.  


	4. Second Patricide II

[Disclaimer from Hell: Sunrise Bandai and other legal entities, all of which are not even vaguely affiliated with me, own_ Escaflowne_.  This chapter expressly uses subtitles and scenes from the original work and I make absolutely no claims of ownership of them.  They are used without permission, but with respect.  Movie subtitles are represented in italics.  These may seem a little odd, because I have played around with the punctuation to suit myself.  And for people who have not seen the movie yet and are determined to be spoiled; I am working with one extremely short flash back scene that appears split in half in the movie with each fragment being significantly far apart from each other.  The fight scene (sadly) does not appear in the movie, nor does much of the action other than what directly relates to the italicized dialogue.]

[Disclaimer, Part Two: lyrics from Legendary Pink Dot's, _Ghost_ also appear without permission.]

[Author note:  If this was a movie it would get an R for violence and sheer gore, but I think if you're mature enough to read for entertainment then, you're mature enough to handle it.  It isn't like they rate the bodice-rippers and sci-fi books at the grocery store.  This chapter is probably the most gripping, yet approaching the second chapter in terms of poor writing.  /pointless rambling]

Second Patricide, Part Two 

_blood on the door_

_blood on the stairs_

blood on the floor 

_blood in my hair_

In a rare show of contemplation, Folken ran toughened fingers over the grisly stone smile of one of the airship's ornamental dragonhead anchors.  He did not wear gloves, as his fingers were deprived of enough sensitivity as it was.  His fingers were less sensitive, but he could feel the smooth surface, the contours of the rows of fangs, and appreciate the cool metal.  

He knew he would yearn for the moment he could fling aside the helmet all the standard soldiers were issued.  Other than his lack of armored gloves, he appeared like any other ordinary soldier of the Black Dragon tribe.  In battle, his fighting and demeanor would belie his appearance, but that wasn't a worry.  Folken didn't want to chance being recognized too soon in the upcoming conflict.  If word spread of who he was right away, there would be a stronger resistance, but more importantly to Folken, certain things he wanted might be hidden away. 

            After a lifetime of being denied the simplest desires, Folken was no longer interested in taking chances.  It was obvious to him that fate would always wrest satisfaction from him unless he could out-plan or destroy it.  The former seemed only slightly more likely than the latter.  

            Looking down into the night from the airship's aft, he noted the progress of the fire in the White Dragon castle.  Had he not been obliged as a child to investigate every quiet corner in the castle, he would not have been half as effective when he drafted the assault with Adel.  As a man, Folken could easily exploit the memories of a thousand escape routes he'd thought of as a child.  With the help of Adel's military engineers, Folken had drafted the castle's structure while they had planned the path the flames would most likely take.

            Without his extensive knowledge, the castle would never be taken.  It was situated in a remote area, but was so blessed with defensive terrain that no strategist had pleasant thoughts about taking it since it was constructed.  The castle was built into the side of one of the mountains the country's interior valleys were laced with.  The very rock that made it was quarried out of the mountain to make room for it in the first place.  

            The valley itself was narrow and tightly carpeted with vast coniferous forests.  Any advancing army would be siphoned in a straight line with little room for maneuvering.  The trees would obscure effective targets and hamper lines of communication.  The only way to possibly turn the terrain to an advancing army's advantage would be to set the forest ablaze and no sane enemy would do that lest the fire became uncontrollable and he lit his own forces: the fire burning in the castle was contained.

            Rough fingertips continued to trace the anchor's teeth.  It was the only nervousness he could afford to betray the last few moments before his move.  General Adel was under the impression he had talked Folken into a conventional entry into the castle.  He had emphasized the importance of how the White Dragon king should be dealt with: by execution rather than battle.  Folken did not resist the suggestion, just as he had not resisted remaining in armor that did not befit his rank.  If Folken wore the armor befitting his relatively new title of lesser general, it would only draw attention and that was the last thing either of them wanted.

            He had agreed on every count, but he had no true intention of entering the castle conventionally.  Clenching a fist, he bared his teeth in a wordless growl, not unlike that of the metal snarl his hand had left to the ornamental anchor.  Below him laid the prize, and he wasn't willing to let fate or Adel's planning get in the way.  Gathering up the innate abilities of his blood, Folken vaulted the airship's deck and let gravity deliver him to his destination thousands of meters below.

_nothing is sure_

_visions impair_

_sick to the core_

_walking on air_

Folken moved through the fire with familiar ease. He was at home with the flames as his hatred and rage burned hotter still. The castle itself, while evoking moldering memories, did not make him feel at home. On the contrary, the castle had, from the very beginning of the assault, surfaced an agitation that caused him to nearly tremble with passionate hatred.

As he stalked through the corridors he'd once galloped down on all fours, Folken thought of nothing but his father and the suffering he had brought down on his then innocent head. His boots' hobnails rang on the stone floor in time with the roaring of the flames and the murderous staccato of his heart.

Ashes from banners and tapestries danced in his eyes and slid down his plates of armor, to lodge in the chain. The stench of burning flesh and furniture tangled in his hair and lingered on his body side by side with the blood of his former countrymen. He did not think of it, but was fixed on locating the man responsible for the real death of the country.

He encountered little resistance on his way to the central throne room. He swept down the wide corridor, trailing death in his wake. The few weak retainers remaining were left in broken heaps on either side of his passing; felled by a crushing blow of his fist or an easy flicker of his curving blade.

Before him was the wide entry to the impressively open throne room where, he assumed, he would meet his father. He did not give pause as he passed through it, but he could feel the hatred vibrating within him begin to translate itself to his body. If not for the roaring inferno, the chattering of his chain on plate would have been easy to hear.

The room was alive with agonized movement. All the banners and flags were burning and convulsing with the rushing of the heated air. Central to the motion, though, was an organic movement characterized by flesh and bone.

He stopped momentarily and the amber eyes, which previously drank in the room's overall interior, focused suddenly on the form of a woman Folken had no intention of sparing. Grieving and she was for her fallen handmaids, she saw him only moments after he resumed his unflagging advance, but did not falter at the sight of him. She read the death in his eyes calmly and turned to meet him defiantly.

Folken smiled grimly, the shake beginning to fade from his body. The woman was armed, standing amidst the bodies of her handmaids. He might have respected that, but she would have nothing from him. She had done nothing to prevent the disaster that had befallen him. She had only dubious loyalty to her own offspring and her own petty desires.

Armed sufficiently with a spike of unreasonable rage, Folken unleashed his hatred on her. She put up the best defense she could, but her own power was not sufficient to shield her from one of his background. From across the room, Folken slammed her short sword back, forcing her limbs to fatally betray her.

Defiance and disbelief mingled in her lovely brown eyes. Her hands fell away from the weapon lodged through her solar plexus. Death was coming to her swiftly, but she went in defiance of him. Her eyes said volumes, but Folken was deaf to all but the final breath that rushed from her mouth as she slipped to the floor within the rough circle of her handmaids.

"Van..."

The simple word took the grim smile and transformed it into another shock of hateful fury. His body fairly hummed with the force of his utterly irrational rage as it lent itself to his telekinetic power.  

The rage, which radiated from him, blowing his hair about as easily as the heated air, was probably all that saved him from the overwhelming blast that came from beyond her. He felt his father's presence just before the most intense pain of his life lit his body and mind up.  His every nerve ending, pore, and follicle, bled excruciating shocks of agony. 

The force his father wielded was so great it lifted Folken off his feet and propelled him into one of the room's vast stone walls. He didn't have time to properly defend himself, but knowing his life was rapidly coming to an end, he focused on a lifetime of frustration, pain, uncertainty, sorrow and betrayal and used the night's mad rage, continuing suffering, and underlying fear as a catalyst to propel his power forth, driving back his father's with brute force of will.  Still, his father pressed on, fueled by his own understandably formidable rage.

The second blast ripped at Folken before he began to fall away from the wall from the first strike.  His heels hadn't even hit the floor but he still found enough time for his survival instinct and battle reflexes to throw up a sloppy, but functional defense.  His father's strike was a chain of initial blow, collision, and seamless follow through that slammed Folken to the wall a second time, powdering mortar and rock.  Dragon or not, between his power and that of his father, his body was trembling with strain.  He could feel himself beginning to be torn apart; external and internal wounds opened in his flesh, regardless of armor. 

As had happened a few years prior, Folken felt pressure build behind his burning amber eyes.    With one final roar of primal rage, pain, and hatred, Folken channeled every last bit of his father's rage away.  The pop of agony, this time, was more intense and the consequences more immediate.  Something within his left eye ruptured explosively, effectively obscuring half his vision.  Not withstanding the injury, his continued survival led to his discovery.

"_Is that you, Dune?_" The years had made the White Dragon no less imposing, his voice still resounded with authority Folken had not fully attained. The grave voice had not changed, but the tight chrysalis of ugliness it inspired in his first son's chest was no longer affected the same way.

"_You are a fool_," the king went on when Folken did not immediately respond. "_That is why the sign was not on your side_."

Folken's head did not raise, but his eyes scanned the scene's the seven dead women and the blaze spilling in every direction. The chrysalis burst as his bloodied face lifted to the formidable man before him. Who was the fool? The man on the verge of an empire or the man with nothing left but his oracle-chosen heir?  A sadistic expression pulled up the corners of his mouth.

"_I'll kill Van with my own hands_…_ Father_."

Dragon power leading, they leapt together to claw and tear with their fangs of steel. Folken considered the many years his father had on him in terms of skill and cunning, but in battle, such things flew away. Always, when he fought, his mind and body coalesced into instinct pushed to the tenuous limits of sanity.

They whirled apart only to crash together. Folken could afford an aura of recklessness, thanks to his vitality and better armor. His father was forced to depend on more conservative tactics.  He was stronger than his son, but his experience was neither as fresh nor his armor as effective. The descendents of the Dragon had always opted to wear armor that left their backs open to the possibility of aerial combat. It was a consideration that kept the older Dragon's sword busy defending Folken's slashing attacks, while Folken could occasionally let a slicing attack come into his circle of protection. All the younger Dragon really needed to worry about was his legs, hands and head, unless his father could get a thrust in, and then he found it crucial to redirect or beat the sword aside.

When he'd been a child, Folken had never gotten anywhere sparring with his father. The man had never shown weakness, temper, or interest. His impassive attitude had convinced Folken he would never have any skill at all, that he was a hopeless case with a sword. The Black Dragon tribe had taught him better: he was slowly forcing his father across the throne room.

"If you beat me down," he growled, when next they crashed together, faces scant inches apart as they each strained for an advantage, "I'll fulfill your last command to me."

His taunt was returned with an even glare, which gave Folken no satisfaction.  "You should not have to be compelled to obey. It was your duty."

Folken's rage nearly undid him. The comment spiked Folken with white-hot rage and a strength he'd rarely known. In fury, he swung back for another forceful charge, swinging his sword across to cleave his father in half from shoulder to opposite hip. His father barely had time to parry the blow, but forced Folken's blow to slide down the opposing blade. It was the opening the old Dragon needed to redirect his own force and swing the hilt of his sword underneath the arc of his son's.  The pommel of the sword, propelled by monstrous pressure, connected a glancing blow to Folken's jaw.

The crack of bone was loud in Folken's head, resounding in his skull like a death knell. Though he had moved his head to the side as quickly as he could, there was no way he could avoid the whole attack. He fell back quickly, nearly falling over, losing all momentum but throwing up his defenses in terms of Dragon power. He dealt his father a blow born of outraged pain and surged to the left, away from the thrust of deadly steel.

The two fell away from each other. Folken's jaw was out of place and clearly broken; there was too much pain to tell how badly. His father was bleeding from numerous wounds across his torso. 

"I would have obeyed," Folken slurred, a mouthful of blood and saliva spilling past his broken lips, "before you made the command, but you never gave me the chance."

The man's glower never faltered, "Your life was never yours to take. Fool, even my life is at the mercy of the land. As king you would have destroyed the kingdom and Van."

Folken's eyes widened in another spike of rage, but he smiled madly despite the pain and fury.  "As nobody at all I am achieving the same."  His sword came up again in time to defend against his father's next onslaught.  It was becoming apparent his banter was drawing the more experienced man into his son's realm of fury.  "After you, I will kill Van with these same hands."

The concussion of their meeting resounded over the roaring flames, bending the blaze back over itself.  The fighting was at its fiercest and most deadly.  Cuts opened up over them within their tight sphere of enraged power and steel.  Where blades did not lick across vulnerable flesh or waning armor, dragon power sank the occasional tooth or claw.  

The distance between the two grew and waned like the coming of lethal tides.  Each slight break in the distance between them shrank as the seconds blurred together until the ringing of swords was almost constant.  They both knew the next slip was the end of one of them, that there was no room for even a slight mistake.  They were far beyond fighting for life and concentrated only on forcing death on one another.

In the midst of the fighting, one thought pierced the haze of Folken's bloodlust; all his life his father expected failure from him, had never wanted him, had never shed a tear for his first wife, had wanted his first son to fade away.  The thought was the opening of a split second and all the White Dragon needed to force a blow past his son's precarious defense.

The heavier sword sailed straight in, piercing Folken's breastplate.

It was exactly what Folken predicted from a man used to seeing him as a mistake.  Driven by battlefield instinct and profound genius, he twisted into the thrust allowing his father's sword to slide between plate and chain and dive for his left shoulder.  The tip of the sword did not stop along the chain, but dove through, as he knew it would.  He had planned on the injury, instinctually capitalizing on the benefits of the added force it would feed the full bodied swing he was pouring his whole will into.

His father knew the mistake the instant his son twisted into the thrust; it was in his bloodied eyes.  Folken had made the mistake for him.  Though his sword was plunging into the madman's shoulder, it was adding to the force of Folken's lethal swing.

            Huge gouts of steaming blood shot forth, blinding Folken more fully as his sword cleaved through his father's neck.  Mad laughter rang through the vaulted room at the unholy victory surging through his own blood.  Clearing his eyes, he fixed on the rolling cranium he'd won.  His vision was hardly clear, his left eye saw nothing at all, but quality of sight could not keep him from his father's head.

            He left the Dragon King's sword and collapsing body behind him and snagged the White Dragon's head by a fistful of bloodstained hair.  "How long did we live and die," Folken murmured, pushing another mouthful of blood and saliva out past his lips, "by self-fulfilling prophecies?  I'll destroy fate, if I can't make my own."

            His father's head weighed his arm as he turned around to face the flames that grew behind him.  He wasn't sure what to do with the head, but he supposed he'd find something appropriate for it.  Thoughts of mounting it on the castle's gates came to him or as trophy to appease Adel's certain ire.  Those thoughts faded, though, with the feeling of a new presence rapidly approaching from the wide hall he'd entered by moments before.

            A strange sensation replaced the heady euphoria of victory as he saw through the flames.  There was a small boy running toward him.  It was almost too much for him to bear.  His father was dead by his hand and the reunion with his little brother was directly before him.  His heart clenched in a different kind of pain.  He imagined it was a good thing, but he hadn't enough experience to be sure.

            "_Mother!_"

            It clenched again and he knew the following feeling was not good; his anger was returning in full force.  His heart pumped the growing rage with unerring ferocity, forcing him to draw himself up physically against it.  Van was ruining their reunion by calling for the wrong person.

            "_Fight, Van!_"

            The guttural moan from beside Folken's thigh was an even more unpleasant shock.  What did it take to kill a Dragon King?  The raging of his blood threatened to burn him more deeply than the blaze billowing around them.

            "_The king of the Dragon Clan never runs from his enemy_."  Folken couldn't begin to force himself to look down at the head weighing heavily from his crimson fingers.  He stood stock still, eyes wide and mad, body still despite its best efforts at rocking in frustration.

            The little boy had slid to a horrified stop; his warm brown eyes were wider still and filled with unimaginable pain.  They were fixed, glazed, branded with the sight of his dead mother, his father's head…  "_Fight_…!  _Fight_,_ Van!_"

            Folken stepped forward, raising the head high over his head.  The step took his face into better lighting, though orange light and shadows still danced maniacally over his features.  The child's shocked expression turned into devastated recognition as Folken flung the head down on the stone floor.  The thud of its impact was not so remarkable as the sound it made as Folken's iron shod boot slammed down on it.  The sound and feel was not unlike flattening a full bowl of porridge.

            A high keening followed his cruel gesture, which he mistook, at first, for another of his father's tricks.  When he looked for the source all he saw was a child on sooty knees in the midst of flames.  His mouth was down turned, his eyes streaming, his body trembling in the throes of traumatic grief.  

            "Van…" the name sounded almost as distorted as their father's last syllable.  Folken's jaw was swelling fast, preventing him from keeping his mouth completely shut.  A steady flow of blood and saliva fell down his breastplate from his mouth when he didn't swallow regularly.  His rage melted slowly away, leaving him weak and somewhat uncertain.

            Huddled on the floor was the bundle of flesh and bone Folken had set out to steal.  With his prize in reach he suddenly found his will faltering.  "Van…"  

            He tried to reason that the trembling gripping the child's body was a trick of the heat, but as he approached his weakened perceptions showed the thought for the lie it was.  Instinct called up enough power to keep himself untouched by the hungry flames as he passed through them to the miserable form.

            "Van…" He knelt beside the boy and found himself amazed at how his brother had grown.  There was only a hint of youthful roundness to his flesh.  His arms were already lined with the first pigments of their heritage.  There were diamonds on his swelling triceps like those on the backs of Folken's hands.  He wondered if he had squirmed under the monotonous pain of the tattooist's bunch of needles and hammer.  Did he cry?

            A rough hand, coated in a knotted glove of congealing blood and gore, laid lightly on Van's arm.  Folken's own blue marks were concealed by chain and darkening blood: their father's blood.  As if burned by that blood, the boy shot straight back, falling on his hands and rump.  His eyes were so wide Folken wondered if they might roll down the boy's stricken face.  Even backwards, the boy was dreadfully fast on his hands and feet: he was yards away before Folken could drag himself to his feet.

            "Van."  

            Any recognition his little brother had worn was gone.  Only animal instinct remained and it was more than enough to tell the boy to get away from the creature that had murdered his parents.  Whether it was adrenaline or fledgling Dragon power, Van turned and shot away like an arrow released from its string, scrambling on hands and feet.  

Folken stretched out a sticky hand in a movement born more of emotion than sense; there was no way he could reach the boy.  In the blink it took to take him from his sight he knew that he had killed any chance the two had to be together or happy.  

One by one, the stars fell out of the sky, unpinning velvet blackness… smothering him.  No iron slash of the moon could part the dark weight disfiguring his spirit.  

_nothing is real_

_no one to hold_

_nothing to feel_

_except for the cold_

Folken's head swung back, an arc of blood trailed his mouth and left a crescent on the floor.  He let his head drift slowly back only to have Adel's mailed fist collide with it from the opposite direction.  A twin crescent of spit and blood adorned the floor on Folken's other side.

            Adel had made their audience private in case he lost his temper so thoroughly he attempted to kill the man before him outright.  Most of the anger was with Folken, but a not inconsiderable amount was directed at himself for misreading his best tool.

            "Fool!" he hissed, nearly frothing at the mouth, "_Fool!_"  He punctuated his second declaration with another cruel backhand.  The steel plate riveted to the back of his glove opened up a fresh lesion above Folken's purple mottled jaw.  "Who are you to disobey my orders?  Who are you to jeopardize my relationship with the Elder Council with your petty vengeance?"

            The eye that was not swollen shut observed Adel coolly, but he kept his mouth as shut as he could.  He wasn't certain his best route with the enraged general; he'd never seen him so impassioned.  In the past, he'd seen other soldier's lose their lives to lesser rages.  It occurred to the apathetic Dragon that he could probably kill Adel even in his terribly injured state, but he couldn't yet find the will.  The idea of dying at Adel's hands didn't seem distasteful; it seemed familiar, it was almost comforting.

            "Answer me," the general snarled, his hand rising in honest threat.

            "Folken," the Dragon answered listlessly, words somewhat garbled from his injury, "fourth field general of the Black Dragon."

            The threatening hand shot out, grasping Folken by his swollen jaw.  Adel's fingertips flexed meaningfully, but he saw no corresponding flinch in his subordinate's open eye.  "Lies.  No general of the Black Dragon would disobey my express orders like you have."

            It was true, Folken admitted dispassionately, but he wasn't a typical lesser general of the Black Dragon.  He didn't say as much; Adel hardly seemed to be in the mood for it.  "I'm guilty of flagrant disobedience."

            Adel's eyes narrowed to hateful slits; his hand tightened.  "What?"

            It was becoming increasingly difficult to respond to his commander while he pressed in on Folken's jaw.  "I'm guilty of flagrant disobedience."

            Adel shoved back on the young Dragon's face.  Folken stumbled back several paces before regaining his balance.  "Who are you to treat me with such disrespect?  None of my generals would answer me like that."

            Slow realization spread through Foken's mind.  He regained his balance and pulled himself into a more formal stance.  "I am guilty of flagrant disobedience, sir."  

            The enraged general closed the distance between them once again.  "Who do you think you are, boy?"

            It had been a while since Adel had addressed him with calculated disrespect.  It hit another familiar chord within the increasingly apathetic Dragon.  "I thought…" He thought what?  He thought the general had, perhaps, given him an unspoken personal privilege that in private he needn't be formal with him.  "I thought it was occasionally permissible to be less formal with you, sir."

            "That," Adel seized him by a handful of hair in an equally familiar gesture, "is not what I asked you.  I asked you, who you think you are.  The answer seems to be that you think you are someone better than my other generals."

            Though the grip on his hair was touching something decidedly paranoid in Folken's mind, he answered with confidence.  "That is so, sir."

            Adel released his grip with a short bark of laughter.  "True, boy, true.  But only in that you are a greater weapon."  The humor was short lived.  Adel jerked Folken's face to his, showing open derision.  "I'm only going to tell you this once, and only because I value your abilities.  You are no one.  You are a body with a set of powers that make you valuable.  You have an aptitude for military tactics and personal combat that give you even greater utility.  That's all."  He shook the Dragon's head by his hair.  "Up here, there's nothing important.  I don't care what you like or fear; you just follow orders.  Step out of line and I'll assume you're broken.  And you should know," he released his grip, but stood his ground, "that a broken weapon is of no use at all."

            There had been little feeling left for the Black Dragon tribe's supreme commander since the siege of Asturia, but what rags remained fell away.  Folken felt a coldness envelop him as he allowed Adel's words to penetrate the ugly remains of his heart.  He almost smiled.  "A broken weapon," he replied evenly, "is only of use when employed by the enemy, sir.  I understand.  In the future I will be of greater use to you."

            The answer was something Adel could understand, even if he didn't trust his Dragon as closely as before.  He assumed the young man would do as he said if for no other reason than he had nothing left to destroy.  A smirk pulled at his harsh face and he slapped Folken's arm good-naturedly.  "Good, I prefer keeping you around.  Now get out of here; you reek."

            "Thank you, sir."  Folken found he enjoyed the cold words; they rang with final clarity.  He bowed low and headed for the door, thinking of how Adel could be of most use to him now.  As he shut the door behind him, a frigid smile slanted across his cracked lips.  Fate and Adel would find him a pawn no longer.

_blood on the door_

_blood on the stairs_

_blood on the floor_

_blood in my hair_


	5. Patricida

[Disclaimer: Escaflowne and related trademarks are more likely to own me than I them.  They are the property of the legal entity, Sunrise Bandai, which has more right to existence than I do in almost any court of law.  This is disturbing, but I'll deal with it since I'm not as committed as Folken.]

[Author's Note: This is the last of it and it well and truly is utterly anti-climatic.  Also, there was supposed to be a nice action sequence in between these two scenes, detailing some fun death and destruction, but I didn't write it as the violence was beginning to feel repetitive to me.  Instead you have the aftermath of that violence.  Oh, and I can't decide how to spell 'Gaia'.]

Patricida 

The night was cool but relatively calm. The iron moon's eye was nearly closed by Gaea's shadow and a thin sheet of cirrus clouds. It gazed blurrily down through the sky's great window, an unreliable witness to a pale figure crouched mutely on a metal airship's hull.

The figure was long, but folded carefully in on itself in such a way as to hide its relative shape. To even an expert observer, the figure would be given little heed. The iron moon seemed ready to look away from the cold creature perched, like a gargoyle, on the lip of a maintenance rail.

The figure shivered slightly from the cold. Below, the night was calm, but so high in the air, the wind was fickle and strong. It snapped at his pant legs and sent his hair writhing about his head like a guttering candle flame. Had he been poetic, he might have found his situation coldly entertaining, but the only poetry left to him was that of movement.

In the indigo night, golden eyes tracked the floating castle below him. He knew where he was going and what he would do when he got there, all he was waiting for was the proper updraft and the nerve to leap out into space.

At last, a gust of warm air rushed up over him, blowing his shoulder length hair up and out of his eyes. Feeling the strength of the wind, he dove forward, his bare feet giving him more control on the metal below than his boots could have. As he leapt he called on his body to give up the secret he'd harbored for years.

A painful explosion of surging flesh propelled from the general area of his scapula; taking the swift shape of great wings. He did not look at them, only worried the slick feathers might draw the Iron Moon's gaze as he glided toward the tower he'd been waiting for.  He followed a preplanned path that would shield him from view by using the airships' great bulk as cover.

The tower grew closer, clearly showing the winged figure the welcoming embrace of a stone balcony. He had calculated correctly; his momentum was great, but not so forceful that his Dragon power could not slow him down. He wanted to avoid flapping his wings, as they were not the type for silent hunting. As best he could, despite lack of landing experience, he pulled his legs up to his chest and stretched them out again in front of him.

His feet connected solidly with the stone rail and his mass eased forward on strong legs. A lifetime of physical activity kept him in control and unconscious grace. There was no discernible noise as he landed and the stone was far too sturdy to communicate the concussion of his body.

He crouched down low and stared at the door barring him entry to the balcony's adjoining chambers. His reflection stared back, black-winged and deadly.  Willing the wings away, he advanced on hands and feet to look the door over.  It was locked, but with careful concentration he could manipulate the tumblers within it and pull it open.

He thought about waking the man within, thought of telling him exactly why he would die, but he didn't need to explain himself to the general.  Folken found that while he lately only felt alive in the heat and rush of battle, he didn't need to feel alive in order to kill a man.  Perhaps that was what he thought he needed when he fought his father, but with the Black Dragon tribe's supreme military commander, Folken only desired clean efficiency.

His Dragon power came quickly to him, filling him with the heady feeling of vital energy.  What he needed now was enough stealth to get the job done, but enough mess to make satisfy his needs.  Armed with his inherited power and bare hands, Folken let flow carefully molded energy to pull the door back.

The room was large and opulently furnished.  Artifacts of various origins filled every available space; most were certainly spoils of war, some were rewards bestowed throughout service, others were gifts from lands now conquered or soon to be.  Folken's gaze flickered over twin gauntlets displayed in a prominent alcove.  They were of a type used by Dragon kind and still spattered with dots of dried blood; most likely his own.

An upper lip curled slightly, but no other trace of annoyance took up residence on Folken's flesh or even in his heart.  The room was an elaborate study, lined with books where trophies allowed.  Following instinct, Folken turned his back to a doorway on his left and padded silently forward on bare feet.  He could feel life in the next room as easily as the death in his hands.

Folken had never seen Adel sleep, though the man had plenty of opportunities to catch the Dragon unaware.  He was the type to sleep on his back with both arms back under his pillow, appearing to rest under his head.  There was no doubt in Folken's mind that the wisely paranoid general was actually sleeping with his hands around knife hilts.  It was a habit he had kept until he'd refined his sleeping habits in conjunction with his ever-useful Dragon attributes.

The bed was large and Adel slept in the middle of it, making it difficult to attack him without a projectile weapon.  Folken didn't mind.  He simply followed the order of the evening: the extensive use of his telekinetic abilities.  The feel of Adel's throat under his power was satisfying.  The skin was rough with stubble, warm from pulsing blood, and perfectly insufficient protection for the arteries and spine it hid.

There was only one thing Folken desired more than killing the man right there and he planned to satisfy himself fully in that regard.  A cold smile twisted Folken's lips as he constricted Adel's throat in sudden ferocity.  The grip was sufficient to cut off breath and sound; Adel awoke thrashing, hands ending in deadly blades with nothing but air and sheets to dice.  But there was no way to reach his assailant nor create enough noise to betray him.

The general quit his struggling as soon as his eyes pierced the darkness and fell on his immediate subordinate.  For quite some time, Folken had been the very picture of obedience and usefulness.  Adel had never trusted him fully since the White Dragon massacre, but he trusted none of his subordinates to any remarkable degree.  He had expected an eventual attempt of the nature he was being subjected to, only not as soon.

It took only a little additional effort for Folken to drag his commanding officer off the bed and carry him to the study.  When Adel shrewdly flung a dagger at his captor, Folken caught it easily with his mind.  He had a harder time catching the other one, aimed for a large and exceedingly fragile urn of exquisite Asturian make.  In the end, he could only deflect it into a bookshelf or risk his hold on Adel.  

A nod dipped Folken's head slightly in recognition of his commander's astute tactic, "I would prefer you didn't alert anyone to our rendezvous at this time."

Adel smirked, despite his continued lack of air.  His vision was growing dark, but he couldn't help taking his assassination with an amount of wry humor.  He should have known anything Orm would give away freely would be damaged goods.

Seeing limbs growing limp despite the man's stubborn efforts, Folken eased his grip long enough for the general to exhale stale air and gasp for a new breath.  Before he could make an attempt at sound, the Dragon crushed his throat again.  Leisurely, he studied the resilient general as he pulled him along to the balcony with him.  

The Iron Moon's eye was now fully hidden by clouds, keeping it from witnessing the last exchange between two harsh men.  Folken might have found the lack of the eye comforting, if he cared about such trivial or superstitious things anymore.  The sad fact remained that he did not care.  There was no poetry to him but the spinning of death and misery.

"Would you like to say anything before we take one last trip together?"  Folken's tone was flat and uncaring.  The words tasted bland and unappealing in his mouth, but somehow necessary.  He released Adel's throat, instead opting to constrain the rest of the man's body in preparation for next leg of the assassination.  He knew Adel was too proud to call for help in vain; the man was as good as dead and they both knew it.

"Not particularly," Adel replied, his voice rough with mocking humor.  "You?"

Folken was irritated with the man's nonchalance, but it didn't affect him as much as he thought it would; he'd grown immune to Adel's acid wit.  "What you left me with at the siege of Asturia and the end of the war on the White Dragon… I took it personally."

Adel shook his head ruefully; this was all dreadfully foreshadowed from the very start.  "I should have ordered you to your death while you were still my faithful dog."

Folken nodded once, "I wouldn't have taken it personally back then."

A light, but resigned, chuckle escaped Adel's throat as a notion came to him.  "I do have a last question."  Adel planned his question to wreak maximum injury.  "Why didn't you kill yourself as your father commanded?"

There was no pain in Folken's flat gaze as he contemplated Adel's amused countenance.  "Because he commanded it.  It was the best thing for Van and I had planned to do it, but when he commanded me to take my life before I could do it myself; it changed everything."

"Pride," Adel smirked, "was also my downfall, I see."

Folken didn't reply; tired of a needless conversation that was dredging up a past he wanted to be meaningless.  

The Dragon climbed onto the balcony and pulled Adel over to him.  When the general was in range, Folken stood and took him by the shoulders. 

And tipped them both over the side.

Adel's eyes grew wide.  He had heard Folken state they would take the last trip together, but he hadn't expected the man to be telling the truth.  Despite all his will and instinctual poise, Adel's shock was plain on his harshly lined face as they sped rapidly toward the black ground.

On the way down, Folken protected himself with his Dragon power as he had the night he'd vaulted down to his homeland.  As they gained velocity he observed the effect the fall had on his superior officer.  At first the man had appeared far more shocked than Folken had guessed the man could look.  As the fall was such a long one, Adel had time to see his assassin was still holding his shoulders so they fell together and that the other man was observing him clinically.  He forced his face to reveal nothing after that.

The fall was far enough that before it was halfway over, Adel could no longer breathe, but his will was fed by his insurmountable pride and he never completely forgot his assassin's presence.  He kept his face impassive, even when internal organs began to rupture from the force of the fall.  Still, Folken continued to fall with the man, but readied his wings for imminent release.  He wanted to make sure he could make it back to his quarters on one of the circling airships without blood on his person or an injury from the long fall.

Adel died long before he hit the ground, the victim of severe internal injuries and suffocation.  It was satisfying in that the man was dead, but the operation seemed anti-climatic on the whole.  The sight of the man's body exploding across the rocks below was only marginally satisfying.  Folken's hastily summoned wings swept him up and away from the messy scene.  He wondered if he might have enjoyed it more if he'd torn the man's head from his shoulders.  As it was, Folken knew he could claim innocence if anyone asked him of the general's death.  The only evidence of struggle would be the dagger in the bookcase; it was the perfect assassination.

            "Will you kill all who offend you?"  

            He smiled distantly at the words as he stalked into the room.  The dried blood and gore covering his armor offended her sense of smell and moral sensibilities.  "Not who so much as everything I have no use for."

            The elfin woman turned away from him.  "Your mind always carries the stench of death, now your body as well.  Again."

            "I would think you'd be used to it after what happened to your people," he replied coolly, hobnails clacking against the stone floor as he drew near her back.  He watched her body stiffen with the cruelty in his words, though the tone he used was not violent, the effect was clearly painful.  

            "I knew you would do this," she whispered, musical voice tight with pain.

            "Do what?" he murmured, gazing at the white hair that flowed down her back.  He raised a hand to catch hold of the silk mass and move it off her back, over her shoulder.  He assured himself, as he always did, that he felt nothing for her because he generally felt nothing but hate and rage and while she often irritated him, she rarely invoked his unforgiving ferocity.

            "Slay those old men," she sighed, her head lowering.  The action was one born of shame, but he only noticed the way it further bared the back of her pale neck.  She shuddered violently as his bloody hand dropped her hair.

            "They were greedy old men," he snarled, stalking away to a basin and pitcher of water on a table against one of the room's stone walls.  He flung his heavy armor aside, filling the room with a resounding crash, and poured the basin full.  "All they cared about was wealth, just like any other inhabitant of this pathetic world.  They had no vision.  They only suffered and caused suffering."  He emphasized his point by slamming the pitcher back onto the table.

            "So do you."  The words, though quiet, were brave.  

            He did not pause in the motions of washing off blood; most of it had not penetrated his armor, but his hands were quite stained.  "Don't think yourself innocent, Sora."

            The trembling sigh behind him only irritated him further.  He reminded himself that he needed her to keep assisting in his quest to locate and revive Escaflowne.  "You only killed them because they offended you."

            When had his seer become so belligerent?  He continued washing the blood from his hands.  "I killed them because their goals were limited and hampered mine."

            It took her until he'd washed and dried his hands to find the courage to reply, though had he turned before she'd found that courage, she would never have found the it at all.  "You killed them because you believe they betrayed your image of them."

            The room grew still at her pronouncement.  He looked at her over his shoulder's reflection in the mirror over the basin.  Why was he bothering to explain why he'd slaughtered the Elder Council?  Especially to somebody who was little more than a closely guarded tool?  "Do you also plan to betray me?"

            She looked over her own shoulder in knowing, but tired, annoyance.  Their eyes met in the mirror but she was the first to look away.  "You should know that I do not.  Where would I go?  Like you, I have nothing left.  No country, nothing.  You and this growing empire have seen to that.  All of Gaia is filled with people who have lost their homelands."

            "You should thank me," he replied, turning around to look at her, "for ending so much suffering.  Gaia itself suffers; it should also be put out of its misery."

            Sora shook her head sorrowfully.  "Is there no reasoning with you?"

            Her tone did not move him.  "My reasoning is sound enough.  All suffering, including my own, will cease when everything is gone.  In order to accomplish this merciful goal," he ignored her pained expression, "you are aiding me.  If you disagreed with what I'm doing you would not help me locate Escaflowne or call the Goddess of Wings."

            As if to deny his words, she took a step away.  "There is still time for you to understand," she whispered.  Whether he heard her or not, she didn't know, but Folken wouldn't have cared anyway.  He was set on his course of assured destruction and had no intention of ever faltering.  All she could do, she mused, was continue to try to reason with an unreasonable man that had unwittingly played into fate's equally merciless hands and would never escape.

            "Is Gaia," she whispered sadly, outside his hearing, "the last link in this chain of patricide?"

            "There is nothing for me to understand," he returned to her previous statement, walking to her back yet again.  His hands fell on her slim shoulders, as heavy to her as the weight of the world.  "When everything is gone there will be no suffering, no cruel fate, no greed.  Nothing.  No new life born into pain, living in pain, dying in pain and suffering throughout it all.  It will all fade away."

            Nothing would exist to torment the creatures of Gaia.  Not the heads of state that all preyed on their people, not the countries that made that possible, especially not the world that made it all possible.

*

[I apologize for the anticlimactic ending, but I made a dreadful error concerning Adel's death scene and Folken's complete disillusionment.  It would have been better if Folken could have dredged up some anger in the end (he's so passionate when he's angry), but losing Van made that impossible as Van symbolized Folken's hope.]

[So, really, this was an epilogue, though I'd like to add a humorous omake to offset the oppressive seriousness of this fic.]

[Thank you to my reviewers; you all deserve medals of valor for braving movie Folken's unmitigated nihilism and angst in this fic.  All five of you!  (chuckle)  I've wanted to answer your reviews but haven't been sure where to do that.  Apologies to my personal cheerleader, NickelS, whom I promised Folken/Sora WaFF to before she jumped the pond.]

[Myst Lady: Thanks, I used to do freelance writing, but nothing of note.

Rai Dorian: Heh, the typos completely destroyed the mood, didn't they?  I can't stop laughing when I see them as I keep thinking fowl = chickens and chickens = humor.  I really should fix that, but I'm lazy.

Larania: I made the Gaou/Balgus figure pretty unforgivable; it seemed appropriate as the Newtype Artbook and radio dramas both mention that he ordered Folken to kill himself.  That was actually part of what inspired this fic.

Etwato: Shenk yew.  I've been writing movie Folken because I was so unsatisfied with what the movie gave of him.

NiS: Now we can go on and on about Cowboy Bebop and I can psychoanalyze Vicious!]


End file.
